Moments
by DeandSeamus
Summary: Maybe if they stay, this moment will last forever. Deamus. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, books movies or characters. I also don't own One Direction or anything associated with their song "Moments"

**A/N:** Semi-Songfic based on "Moments" by One Direction. Absolutely wonderful Deamus song! Thank you so much to alaibean for the request. If anyone wants to request additional Semi-songfics, feel free to post a review or PM me. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy.

**Moments**

Weak moonlight streamed into his upstairs bedroom past the silver clouds that littered the dark sky. It fell across Seamus' bare back, but thankfully left his tear-stained face in shadows. Dean still knew, though. Dean always knew, of course, but it was hard to ignore when the tears ran from Seamus' cheeks onto Dean's nose as he pressed gentle kisses onto the swollen skin. Seamus tasted of salt.

When Dean had arrived at his home in Ireland that afternoon, Seamus knew. Knew the way a mother ewe can find her lamb. Knew the way a sea captain knows he'll face rough water. Knew. Knew that Dean was disappearing for what could be a long while. Knew this could be his last chance.

Seamus' mam had had some stew on, and the three ate in near-silence. Somehow, Seamus' mam knew too- knew there was something wrong with her boy. Knew to stay silent. She hadn't said a word when the two had shortly retired to Seamus' bedroom. Shut the door. Turned the light off.

Then, sunset had swathed the room in an orange glow that Seamus would remember until he died. Remember the way it reflected off Dean's dark skin, remember the way it had deepened the sadness in those eyes when he'd held Dean's head desperately between his hands. Remember the way he felt something break down inside him, like the final straw that broke the camel's back.

It was their last chance.

Hours turn to seconds, minutes to days when their slow, steady need turns overwhelming. They haven't moved away from their place by the door when the clouded moon shines in, even after Seamus has thrown the bolt. Maybe if they stay, this moment will last forever. Dusk grows into heavy night, but Seamus can't bring himself to move, to lie down, to do anything but embrace the young man in front of him and let the tears stream down his face.

Can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't scream.

Thankfully, between them no words have ever been needed.

Dean _knows_. Knows Seamus' heart is beating fast without feeling the soft press of skin against him. Knows that Seamus' mind is racing without being told what it's thinking. Knows that, for Seamus, a man of so many words, speaking now would make it all harder. Then again, so does this empty silence. So does every minute that ticks by, closer to daybreak and departure. Thank Merlin Seamus has never bothered to put a clock in his room. He can hear every tick and tock too clearly without one.

They're still there, or there again, Dean pressed against the wall beneath him, when cold steel grey overtakes the midnight clouds. They've made one moment last a night that feels like a lifetime, but they haven't managed to slow time down. They can't turn it back, and now it's almost too late.

Seamus knows that if he begs and if he pleads, Dean will spend another day with him. Another night. And day after day would follow, until the snatchers or the Muggle Registration Commission come and pry Dean right from Seamus' cold dead arms. But he can't. As much as he wants it, he needs more than anything for Dean to be safe, and he knows the only way is for Dean to go now, while he still has time. The same commodity is slipping from them, fast and slow and _allatonce. _And as much as he wants it, he cannot have this life for one more day.

Hours after Dean is gone, Seamus sits on his bed, thinking.

He remembers, flashes. His young life has moved so fast he can't distinguish footie in the park near Dean's house from walking 'round the Irish countryside. It's hard to distinguish the day he left a mark on Dean's neck that had to be covered with a scarf from the time he loosely fit his tie around Dean's head. Impossible to determine which mornings he found his shirt missing and which he found Dean's shoved between his footboard and the mattress. But the hardest of all is imagining the pointlessly long weeks (months? He prays that it not be years) ahead- every monotonous hour spent without him would all blend together in one continuous stream, no end in sight.

He hadn't found the words before Dean had left his last, reassuring touch.

He hadn't said a bunch of words he'd always hoped he'd never have to say.

He hadn't needed to.

In that moment, Dean knew.


End file.
